Time Trap

by Deborah Chester

  “Master!” shouted a voice. “Master!”

  Noel heard footsteps pattering across the stone paving and dragged open his eyes.

  A man in d’Angelier livery ran to Frederick and bowed hastily. He was coated with road dust and breathing heavily.

  “How the devil did you find me here?” demanded Frederick, plainly aghast. “Were you followed through the streets? Did you take care? God’s wounds, if you have given us away—”

  “Sir.” Kneeling, the man gripped the hem of Frederick’s tunic. “Tobin brought me from your tent to this abode. He twisted and turned us about through so many streets, I know not where I be now, but I beg you will listen to the message I bring.”

  “From my father? Speak it quickly.”

  The man rose to his feet and pressed close to Frederick’s ear, murmuring too low for anyone else to hear. Frederick’s face grew long with dismay and worry. Watching, Noel felt weariness seep through his bones. Something must have befallen Sir Olin and Theodore. So much for his plan to save the world. Now what was he to do?

  Noel reached out and tugged a fold of Cleope’s long saffron gown to get her attention. She turned at once, although her gaze lingered on Frederick.

  “You must sleep,” she said automatically. “All will be well.”

  “All isn’t well, and it’s getting worse.” Noel propped himself up on his good elbow with a wince. “Frederick?”

  But Frederick walked from the garden without looking back.

  “Frederick, wait! What’s—oh, hell.” Noel gestured at Cleope. “Find out what’s happened.”

  She gathered up her long skirts and scurried after Frederick. By the time she returned, Noel had managed to sit up and swing his legs over the edge of the cot. He rested, clutching his blanket to his waist, and cursed his weakness.

  “What?” he demanded.

  She was crying and twisting her sleeve into a pleat. “My lady is—” A sob burst from her and she buried her face in her hands.

  Noel curbed his impatience and gently pulled her hands down. “Go on. Is she dead?”

  “No.” Cleope sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Injured. She was arguing with Lord Theodore and tried to gallop away from him. Her horse fell with her on the trail. She needs me now. I must go and tend her, but Frederick will not take me.”

  “You’re needed here.”

  “She has bones broken. She could die!”

  “Cleope,” said Noel savagely, “there’s more at stake here than a broken arm or leg. Is Theodore coming?”

  “No. Frederick’s messenger says they have turned back. Lord Theodore refuses to leave my lady’s side. He is a good man, a true—”

  “He’s a romantic idiot,” said Noel, then saw the shock on Cleope’s face and relented. “All right. He’s very noble, I’m sure. But he’s needed here. He must challenge Sir Magnin and win today or—”

  “Well, if a stupid joust is all you can think about at a time like this—”

  “For God’s sake, woman! I am trying to…” Noel found himself suddenly short of breath. He blinked and passed his hand across his face.

  “Too much excitement,” she said. “Now will you listen to reason and rest?”

  “No,” said Noel. “Where does Frederick think he is going? I need him here until we have finished this. Stop him, Cleope. Tell him to come back.”

  She looked doubtful. “Will you lie down until I return?”

  He sent her a wan smile. “I promise.”

  “Then I shall go.”

  “One other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “You must make a potion for me. Something powerful that will give me energy and mask the pain.”

  She started to protest, but he gripped her hand. “Please,” he said. “It’s important.”

  “It’s foolish! My remedies are not for misuse.”

  “In times of emergency the rules change.”

  She frowned, horrified. “That is blasphemy. We must live according to the order we are taught by church and state.”

  “It’s expediency. Look, we’ll settle this in a few minutes. Just go after Frederick before he leaves. I can’t do this without his help.”

  “What is it that you have in mind?” she asked suspiciously. “What is it that you plan to do?”

  “I’ll tell you when Frederick gets here.”

  She continued to frown at him while he adjusted the blanket and laid down. He was thirsty again. The sun hurt his eyes. He wanted to sleep for a hundred years. When she still stood rooted in place, however, he lifted his head.

  “Cleope, go! Don’t let him leave. Tell him anything. Tell him I am worse and calling for him. Do anything, say anything, but bring him back with you.”

  She took one step away and glanced back. Her brow was knotted with worry. “Whatever you are planning, it will get you killed.”

  She was right, but he wasn’t going to let himself think about how crazy and desperate his plan was.

  “That’s my problem,” he said impatiently. “Go!”

  Shaking her head, Cleope hurried from the garden and vanished from sight into the house.

  Chapter 15

  If chain mail was this heavy, Noel wondered how men could endure wearing the suits of massive plate armor that would come into vogue within the next few decades. The clinging drape of the finely linked chains irritated him. He found the shirt too long and the leggings too short. The latter were held up by a pair of primitive garters that made him feel he might lose them at any moment. When Frederick pulled the mail mittens over his hands, Noel felt completely helpless, like a four-year-old bundled into a snowsuit.

  “How can I hold a weapon without my fingers free?” he asked.

  Frederick knelt to fasten the steel greaves to his shins and did not answer.

  The argument was long since over, and although Noel had won it, Frederick still disapproved.

  “It’s wrong,” he muttered, fastening the other greave. His words were muffled against Noel’s leg as he fitted on a pair of knee cobs.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You know.”

  A sullen Frederick was less than desirable company. Noel was having enough trouble with his own flagging courage without having to boost Frederick’s morale.

  “Stop sulking,” said Noel. “We’ve settled this already.”

  “You should not compete. You are not a knight, and it is wrong to pretend. Deceit is the first step toward damnation. Even if you win, it will invalidate the—”

  “I can’t worry about that now,” said Noel. He reached for the collar.

  Frederick sprang up. “The breastplate first. Just wait for me to do it.”

  He buckled on the front and back halves of the steel corselet.

  Noel felt pressure on his wounded shoulder and sucked in his breath sharply.

  “Too tight?” asked Frederick.

  “Yes.”

  “I told you this would not work. The plate has to be snug or a lance can catch it and rip it from your body. Why will you not let me—”

  “No,” said Noel. “You can’t participate—”

  “I know more about fighting than you!” said Frederick hotly. “I shall probably be knighted by Michaelmas.”

  “Fine. In the meantime, no glory for you. Don’t argue, Frederick. It’s not to be, and that’s final. I can’t explain.”

  Frederick hesitated, then lifted the collar bearing Theodore’s coat of arms—hastily painted by the armorer at Sir Olin’s castle. Everything was borrowed piecemeal since Theodore’s own resplendent armor had been lost in the initial ambush. Noel didn’t like his colors of yellow and black. He felt like a bumblebee once he put on the long surcoat. The ends flapping about his ankles made him feel ridiculous. Frederick snapped the helmet to the chain on the breastplate and knelt to buckle spurs on Noel’s feet.

  Next on went the mail coif. It covered Noel’s chin to the lips and the edges scratched his cheeks. He wondered how the others could stand to wear these th
ings all the time. His head itched and while he was rubbing it through the links, Frederick buckled on his sword.

  Noel practiced grabbing the hilt a few times in his mittens. They were clumsy all right. With these things on he might well drop his sword.

  “How do I look?” he asked. “You have three choices for an answer: class A dork, class B dork, or the pride of Camelot.”

  “I understand you not, but verily you look frightened.” Frederick’s gaze met his earnestly. “Are you certain you will not have a priest’s blessing? To go into combat unshriven is tempting fate.”

  Exasperating though it might be, the boy’s concern was genuine and well intentioned. Noel smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “No, thank you.”

  “Noel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Father says that when everything goes amiss it is time to pause and reevaluate the situation. He says if God is against you, then stop and either abandon your purpose or go at it differently.”

  Noel wished he could follow that advice. Even if he got very lucky and didn’t drop his sword, his borrowed war-horse didn’t run away with him, and he found he had a natural aptitude for lances, he hadn’t much of a prayer against Sir Magnin’s skill and experience.

  “Sir Olin is a wise man,” Noel said. “If I’m defeated by circumstances, that’s one thing. But if I quit now, before I’ve done all that I can, then I’ve defeated myself. I can’t.”

  Frederick nodded. “No one can doubt your courage.”

  “Just my sanity, right?” Noel grinned.

  Frederick smiled back. “I do not wish to unman you by saying this, but you are truly mad.”

  Noel pretended the hollowness inside him was nothing to worry about. “Time to go.”

  “Noel?”

  This time he let his impatience show as he glanced back. “Yes?”

  “I sent word to Father. He should know about this.”

  Noel shook his head. “You think he’ll come? There’s no point now. By the time they get here, it will be over one way or the other. Come on. I’m not going to miss this.”

  Before he went outside, Noel put on the helmet and lowered his visor. It cut off most of his vision and some of his hearing. It was incredibly hot and once he had a good dose of sunshine warming it, he would be a prime candidate for roasted skull.

  Whatever drug Cleope had given him was working. Its taste was so foul, he almost couldn’t swallow it, but now he felt pleasantly numb. If the sky tended to become a weird shade of pink at the edges and if sometimes his arms and legs seemed to float away…well, so what? He would pay the consequences later. Right now, the trip was worth the ticket.

  The ruse of passing himself off as Theodore simply by putting on armor that bore the man’s ensign seemed too simplistic to work. No one in Noel’s own time would swallow it, but while men and women here might scheme and connive, they still apparently took coats of arms and insignia at face value. Frederick was not yet entirely over his shock at this duplicity. Noel decided if Leon could show these folks how to break a few rules, he might as well do the same. Besides, Theodore had started it by having Noel take his place once already.

  Swathed in a cloak to conceal himself from the watchful eyes of guards patrolling everywhere, a tense, silent Noel rode a nondescript palfrey along the streets to the tent enclosure. Noel opened his cloak to show the emblems on his surcoat, and the guard waved them through with scarcely a glance.

  Indeed, there were armored knights and squires milling everywhere in such confusion no one had time to be suspicious. Most were comparing wounds or complaining that the tournament field and tents should have been closer together. It was an awkward arrangement, mostly for the squires who had to dash back and forth for mislaid gauntlets or forgotten weapons.

  At the d’Angelier tents, Frederick and the other squires set to work transferring Noel from the gentle palfrey to a massive war destrier dappled gray with a black mane and tail. The animal’s head was nearly as long as Noel’s torso; his shaggy feet were the size of dinner plates. Noel stared up at the creature’s back with trepidation and barely stopped himself from asking for a stepladder.

  “Percheron?” he asked, drymouthed.

  “Yes, indeed.” Frederick patted the horse’s shoulder with visible pride. “Bloodlines all the way back to Normandy. He is a steady old campaigner. He knows every trick of the jousting field. Leave him his head once you start down the tiltyard. Do not attempt to rein him short.”

  Noel watched the brute prance around like a yearling colt while his bardings were put on. He might be huge, but that didn’t prevent him from being frisky. Although horses were extinct in Noel’s century, the Time Institute had brought a few specimens back for training purposes. Noel knew that Percherons were considered the most spirited of the big draft breeds.

  It took two men to lift the heavy chanfron and buckle it on the horse’s head. Constructed of wood and leather, it made the animal fret and snap. Smooth mail and plate covered his chest and shoulders, and his rump was draped with a massive leather crupper at least two inches thick. Feeling as though the horse was better protected than he, Noel wondered if it could even move, much less run with so much weight to carry.

  Once up in the saddle, Noel had to close his eyes a moment against a wave of unexpected weakness. He wasn’t sure how long Cleope’s opium mixture was going to last, especially under exertion.

  Handling the reins, Noel quickly discovered his mount had a mouth of iron and the temperament to match. It was like trying to ride a moving mountain.

  Frederick climbed into his own saddle and another squire handed him a bound bundle of lances. Another moved ahead of Noel and unfurled a gonfalon of black and gold silk. The wind made the colors swirl. Noel cast off his cloak and wished himself luck.

  As they rode through the town in their own miniature procession, people paused to look, then to point. Word flashed ahead, and by the time he rode past the round Byzantine church with its red tile roof and bell tower, and reached the stone bridge spanning the river, spectators had begun to gather beside the road. Many of them cheered, and Noel felt like a complete impostor as he lifted his hand in return.

  “Jesu mea,” muttered Frederick as the cheering grew louder, swelling ahead of them in a wave. “Do not open your visor for any reason. I vow this will goad Sir Magnin like tossing water on a hornet.”

  “Good,” said Noel. “That’s what we want.”

  He saw the field ahead on the flat plain. People thronged the stands. Gonfalons waved in a myriad of colors. Sweating horses stood tied to their saddles out of the way. Knights yet to compete roamed restlessly on horseback, their visors up, colorful pennons fluttering from their lances. Others stood about, flirting with ladies in the stands. A boy and girl in servant’s homespun were rolling in the hay beneath the stands, half-concealed by the cloths hanging over the support posts. Food sellers hawked their wares from wooden trays slung around their necks. The smell of seasoned goat meat in the hot afternoon air made Noel queasy. Broken lances had been thrown in careless piles. Five corpses wrapped in blankets lay stacked for burial later. Noel averted his eyes quickly and tried not to listen to the buzzing flies.

  Two combatants were in the tiltyard now, careening toward each other at full gallop, their lances blunted for the contest. They came together with a crunching smack that made Noel flinch. The crowd screamed in frenzy. One man in pale blue went flying over the hindquarters of his horse. He landed on his feet, staggered a few steps to catch his balance, and bowed in rueful acknowledgment of defeat.

  Other onlookers, already losing interest, craned to see Noel as he edged his horse onto the field. A few recognized his ensign. Some rose to their feet. The noise receded for a few shocked seconds, then swelled.

  One of the four judges in crimson gestured at a herald, who came trotting over to Noel on horseback.

  “Your name, sir knight.”

  “I wish to make challenge,” said Noel.

  “We do no challeng
es today. This is a joust of celebration and good spirit, intended to honor our new governor.”

  “I am Theodore of Albania,” said Noel loudly. “Rightly appointed governor of Mistra by Andronicus, your liege and sovereign emperor. I have come to challenge Magnin Phrangopoulos and lay claim to what is mine.”

  The herald’s face turned as pale as his linen. “My lord prince,” he gasped. “What—”

  “I have brought challenge,” said Noel. He gestured and a grim-faced Frederick brought forward a gauntlet stitched and embroidered with Theodore’s coat of arms on one side, the two-headed eagle of Byzantium on the other. “Take my glove to Sir Magnin.”

  The herald swallowed and although Frederick held out the glove, the man did not take it. “My lord, I dare not—”

  “What is this?” demanded one of the judges, riding up.

  He scowled beneath his crimson cap. “You are delaying the tournament, sir. Take your place or stand aside for others.”

  The herald turned in his distinctive tabard and murmured quickly to the judge. The man also turned pale. He glanced at Noel and coughed.

  “My lord, we have no—”

  “Stand aside,” said Noel.

  The two men swung the horses from his path. Taking the gauntlet, Noel spurred his destrier hard. Startled, the old horse lumbered into a gallop and picked up speed as they crossed the field. Reining sharply before the canopied section of the stand where Sir Magnin’s court sat transfixed with amazement, Noel flung the gauntlet with more force than aim. By sheer luck, it hit Sir Magnin in the face.

  He slapped it away and jerked to his feet. Decked out in cloth of gold and saffron-colored hose, a feathered cap cocked on his long black hair, Sir Magnin wore a heavy gold chain studded with thumb-sized emeralds across his chest. His handsome face blazed scarlet, and his eyes held murder. “What is the meaning of this outrage?” he shouted. “You pathetic whelp, how dare you challenge me—”